


Strawberry Daiquiri With A Twist

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Series: Reimagining Fairy Tales [6]
Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Rotkäppchen | Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: F/M, Werewolf Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Red Riding Hood reimagined for the urban jungle...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Daiquiri With A Twist

She’s visited the city many times before, but she has never strayed from her path: Always to grandmother’s apartment and then back to the little house in the suburbs she calls home. She always takes a taxi there and back. But there is a small traffic back-up, and she gets too impatient to wait: she pays the cabbie and jumps out onto the busy street. ‘It’s only five block,’ she tells herself, pulling the hood of her red coat up over her head. She knows the way: it’s straight and narrow; she’s taken it many times without every letting her attention stray.

But she is curious and sometimes idle by nature; the window displays start to draw her attention and she begins to linger. She’s never been to a club in her life, but she sees a poster in a dirty plastic frame, bolted to the brick wall beside the blacked out windows of a little place called The Woods. The poster is advertising a gig; she recognizes the band, it’s one of her local favorites. The club itself looks like a clean if smallish space. She’s carded at the door and wanders inside.

She sticks out like a sore thumb immediately, wearing a simple white peasants blouse and the plaid school skirt of her country finishing school; she wears no make-up, and her hair is plated plainly. Her cheeks are naturally rosy and her lips a full, blossoming red, as if she’d just been eating cherries; she’d never had need for cosmetics before. She has a nipple ring that she had gotten on a dare and which her mother knows nothing about, but that was firmly covered.

She keeps her coat on, and the tote bag slung over her shoulder close to her body beneath her arm. She hovers near the exit but doesn’t leave; her eyes are wide, taking everything in. She notices a man watching her; at first she dismisses it, obviously she’d draw attention, and she thinks his staring is quite rude. But then the bartender hands her a frosty strawberry daiquiri and tells her it’s on the house, which means it comes from Mr. Wolfe, a regular. The bartender indicates the man whose strange eyes never leave her.

He comes over then, introduces himself. She tells him her name is Red, joking about her coat. His eyes, an unnerving, clear chartreuse color almost like amber or topaz, hold a glimmer of mischief and maybe even wickedness; his hair is a peculiar, shaggy streaked brown—it makes him look older than he is, those odd strips of gray and white running through his disheveled mane. And that’s what it reminded her of: a mane.

He buys her another daiquiri, pushing aside her protests. He dips a pinkie finger into the pink cocktail and raises it to his lips. “Strawberry daiquiri with a twist of kiwi; that makes it more… interesting.” She’s surprised to find she’d already finished the first and was pleasantly buzzed. She’s feeling a bit dizzy and definitely more loose-lipped. There’s something compelling about him, mesmeric, and she find her cheeks grow hotter and hotter the more she speaks with him. She tells him about her grandmother, about her errand in the city; she’s not sure, but she might have even divulged her granny’s address.

He urges her to have a little fun, even leads her to the dance floor. Granny can wait; she’ll just tell her she got caught in traffic, which wasn’t far from the truth. She deserved to have a good time every now and again, he argued, and she doesn’t disagree. His words are so seductive and so is he, though he doesn’t push it, doesn’t try to force it. They’re just wasting time together and when at last she notices the time and insists that she really must be going, he doesn’t protest.

He knows the city, knows the alleyways and many shortcuts while Red tarries, swinging her tote; she even stops to buy some flowers for Granny from a sidewalk vendor. The streetlights flicker on as dusk turns into evening, the encompassing darkness of night. She skips from one pool of luminosity to pool of light, little islands of warm orange cast by the lamps towering above.

As she approaches her granny’s apartment building, she hears a voice calling from the dark alley beside it. It’s gruff but high-pitched; not exactly feminine, but definitely aiming toward womanly. In other words, it sounds exactly like Grandma. Perched on the fire escape, Wolfe even imitates the little wheeze at the end of his words. “Why, Granny,” she says as she turns the corner and steps into the shadow of the alley, “what a raspy voice you have! Are you still smoking four packs a day?”

“The better to relieve stress with,” Wolfe sighs as he watches her draw nearer.

“And, my, but this is an odd place for you to be,” she notes, glancing around timidly, grasping her tote to her chest.

“The better to have a cigarette without you smelling it, my dear,” he replies, nearly licking his chops. She was at the ladder now, reaching for the top rung, standing on her tippy-toes.

“Shall I come up?” she offers. “Have you gotten locked out again?”

“That won’t be necessary, my love.” His voice transforms to his deep growl as he effortlessly leaps from the metal rail of the fire escape and to the concrete floor of the alley, blocking her path to the street. The moon isn’t full, but a small amount of its glow still filters thinly between the two buildings; she can see that it is Wolfe and that he is changing, growing in both height and bulk. Some part of her brain registers that he’s naked, and that the same shaggy hair that he has atop his head is beginning to sprout lightly all over his body.

She thinks of the word werewolf, but decides quickly that the term is inaccurate, and not just because it wasn’t a full moon. As his haunches grow and begin to bend like an animal’s legs and his feet turn into paws, she thinks that he is a wolf who is also a man, or a wolf who has turned himself into a man, and while she has never heard of such a thing, she knows she is looking at one now, and so she does not dispute it. His nose and mouth elongate into a snout, and his hands grow claws, his fingers thickening; not paws, but the distinct hands of this wolf-man. He throws his head back and howls, a throaty sound.

She stands stock still, frozen, not necessarily frightened but riveted, fascinated, and all too late she realizes that he has her cornered. She knows from playing here as a child that the alley ends in a padlocked chain-link fence and he stood at the mouth of the alleyway. She backs up, feeling the brick wall at her back; she holds her tote bag up in front of herself as if it might be used as a shield. He advances on her and, with one swipe, the tote rips open and she hears all the goodies she was bringing her granny fall to the damp, cracked blacktop.

“My, my,” he chuckles in his deep growl, “what wide eyes you have, Red.” He holds up the forefinger of his right hand, long claw extended, and runs the tip against her blouse; she can hear the fine material ripping neatly, like a quick and precise little ‘zip.’ Her top falls open, exposing her small breasts under a simple bra. The claw plucks at the place where the two cups meet over her breast bone, and that too falls away. The cool night breeze makes her nipples pucker immediately, and the one with the ring begins to throb excitedly. Her head is turned to the side, burying most of it in the red hood of her coat, and her eyes are screwed shut.

He chuckles, low and resonating, with the rumble of a growl edging around the sound; it sends a thrill throughout her body, making her shiver. It’s not fear; she’s as sure of that as she is of the fact that he is a plain old wolf that has learned to be manlike, a werewolf but the opposite of the usual. It’s not hard to guess, however, as a surge of her hot, sticky wetness fills her panties, making them nearly transparent beneath her skirt.

His tongue, rough, abrasive like a dog’s, tastes first her unadorned nipple, drawing a low whimper from her throat; but then it moves to the pierced nub, and, as if it were jointed—double-jointed, triple-jointed—the tip hooks into the rings and, while she feels the moist heat of it on her flesh, his tongue tugs at the jewelry. He draws the nipple into his mouth, the end of his muzzle making a perfect ‘O’ as he suckles her, his tongue swirling, yanking, toying with the ring. She’s wriggling between him and the wall, every caress of his mouth sending shocks of electricity throughout her, gathering in that place between her legs.

He pulls back and watches her with those keen amber eyes; she cautiously peeks at him through the slit of the one eye facing him. She thinks he’ll tear her skirt next, and is waiting with something like anticipation. But he likes the look of the school skirt and is much happier to go snuffling up it with his long snout, his nose going directly to the saturated patch in the crotch of her panties; she can feel it, wet and warm, pushing into her through the fabric. He inhales deeply, his mouth watering at her scent, and then blew that heated breath out, making her gasp as it shot up into her undies.

He pulls back again, and this time she doesn’t dare steal a furtive glance at him. And so the surprise is total when she feels his large, strong hand cupping her down there, his middle finger working its way into the drenched material; his claw slides effortlessly through it and up inside of her. Her juices flowed freely down his knuckles as rubbed that thick finger against the silken wall of her private place, the tip of his claw tantalizing the very tender and vulnerable flesh but never hurting, never scratching or drawing blood. The pad of his finger finds a special spot within her, and begins to stroke it generously, relentlessly, mercilessly, judging her pleasure by the way she writhed against his hand, the pleas that were uttered by her sweet, sweet lips. His thumb begins to work at her clitoris, the fabric still between the rough pad and the jutting little button.

She comes for him for the first time, and he releases her from his grip to lap her sweet nectar from his fingers, his palm; his tongue takes relish in this task, and once again, she thinks it must be multi-jointed as it wrapped itself around the webbing between his fingers, lashing at his palm and curling around that middle finger, running along it from knuckle to tip.

The panties are already ruined, and he discards the rest of the material, once more delighting in dipping beneath that pleated skirt. And that clever tongue of his suddenly takes up the dance that his finger had occupied only moments before, her body still trembling as he licked her up and down, inside and out, his tongue finding places inside of her she had no idea could feel so good. His lips make a delighted smacking sound as he laps at her deeply, the coarseness of his tongue like velvet and sandpaper at the same time, exciting the deepest parts of her. Her eyes are rolling back into her head with rapture, and she feels her hands, as if by their own will, uncurl and leave the wall where her knuckles had been pressed firmly, to bury her fingers in the thick, soft fur of his scruff. He flicks his ears once, and the flutter against the insides of her thighs, making her arch and moan. Number two; he’s counting.

And when he stands for the third time, she can clearly see how aroused he is. His testicles are like two furry tennis balls in a tight sac dangling between his back legs, swelling, bulging; his tail swishes happily back and forth beneath them. His cock is fully unsheathed, jutting erect from the angled base, pink and engorged, the head a tiny fist topping his distended shaft. She needs no invitation or demand: she falls to her knees and immediately wraps her lips around that tasty looking head, sucking, her tongue lashing at the tip and circling its base as her small hands—both of them—encircle the rod pumping in separate direction, meeting in the middle. She draws the saliva down from her mouth to coat him and her mouth slurps wetly at his throbbing flesh.

He lets loose a growl, vicious and victorious, throwing his head back as if he were about to howl again. Instead, he pulls her to her feet, and then off of them as he parts her thighs and enfolds her legs around his waist. She feels every brawny muscle of his moving beneath his furred flesh as he braces himself against the wall and thrusts his cock in to the base in the first violent rush. She screams, her nails digging into the sinew of his shoulders, her head thrown back.

Despite the fact that she was technically no longer a virgin, she has never been penetrated before, and he gives her no time to adjust to the new sensation nor his extreme size and the bestiality of his assault. She feels an initial stab of pain, perhaps even a little blood, but his ride is well oiled by both her gushing juices and her own saliva on his dick, and while his girth and length cause friction in her clenching maidenly passage. His thrusts are short and quick, jolting her up and down in a steady rhythm, almost like a carnival ride. She thinks she can feel in burrowing all the way into her belly, his engorged head nestling there.

It takes a moment to comprehend that he’s moving her, slipping her coat off and dropping it to the damp cement and putting her down on it on her hands and knees; he is poised behind her, between her thighs, his cock still submerged deeply. He braces those bent back legs, so like an animal’s, against the ground, and grapples his powerful arms around her waist as he begins to fuck her again, harder, faster, until snarls are coming from his own muzzle, his teeth snapping at the air.

She’s so sensitive, within and out; her fists curl in the lining of her coat, but she can no longer hold off her third orgasm. It slams into her like a freight train, making her sob and moan, thrashing, trembling in his embrace. And then he comes. There’s an odd sensation as his cock seems to bloat in her tightening pussy, and she feels the strong splashes of his seed spilling in her in plentiful surges.

Her hair had come free of her braids and hangs in damp ropes of golden ginger clinging to her flushed face, neck and shoulders. Her arms trembled until she collapsed, her rump still high in the air, his furry groin still pressed into her. Her body heaves for breath and slowly the waves of blissful release fade and she’s left with a warm afterglow. She lifts her head tiredly and cranes her face around to look at him, startled. “Are you…?”

“Stuck?” he asks, still puffing. “Yeah. This might take… a little bit and…” Another spurt of his cum. “That might happen in the meantime.”

“Ohhhh,” she moans, resting a cheek against her hand and grinding her round bottom into him. Finally, she is free and he begins to move away. From above, her Grandma’s voice calls drunkenly, “Betty, zat you? Whatcha doin down thar, girl?!”

Wolfe is retreating into the shadows. “How will I find you again?” she asks softly as she scrabbled to get her red coat on.

She is left with only the impression of his gleaming white smile, like the Cheshire cat, only with fangs she was sure could rip her apart. He says only one thing: “Strawberry daiquiri with a twist.”


End file.
